


Incarceration

by ExorcisingEmily



Series: Before the Fall Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExorcisingEmily/pseuds/ExorcisingEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cas and Dean land in lockup for falsely impersonating police officers on a case, something finally clicks for Dean: he's fallen for a -guy-.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incarceration

It would have been difficult to predict that there would come a day Dean Winchester begins questioning his own sexual preferences, and when. For one thing there’s the small matter that Dean has seemed, from a very young age, to be a skirt-chasing, panty-dropping, straight-as-an-arrow, love 'em and leave 'em ladies' man and he makes no particular apologies for it. Everyone has fun, no one goes into the situation with any expectations of long-term, and he’s good to his partner (whoever she might be that day) and he moves on to the next town.

For the next, every time his brother says anything vaguely considerate or sensitive, there’s the heavy teasing about him being "gay" despite all evidence to the contrary, not the least of which being Dean knows for an unfortunate fact that Sam has taken advantage of their separate motel rooms to bring a girl or two back with him over the past month and Dean hadn't picked up a girl since. . . well, once he starts thinking about it that way, an embarrassingly long time. It’s been a busy year, with his brother going crazy and then his best friend going off the deep end.

No, his almost manic hypermasculinity is still intact and unscathed. He hasn't become any more sensitive (it’s a stereotype and he knows it, but the concepts have become inseparably entwined in his concept of the world) and Dean’s still generally a complete ass to Sam whenever he tried to get his brother to 'open up,' 'share,' 'talk,' or otherwise discuss his emotions and his current relationship.

That relationship, of course, is the root of the belated confusion. You'd think he would have actually been struck earlier by the implications, but. . . well, Dean is Dean, and when Dean finds a subject uncomfortable he’s a pro at sweeping it under the rug.

No. Dean never really considered whether his relationship could be considered 'batting for the other team' until well after he probably should have.

"Son of a _bitch_ , Cas! What. . . why. . . you know how to do this!" It isn't exactly an ideal circumstance, either. Polk County, Iowa. In a small farmer's community, bodies began turning up mutilated, sliced, diced, and missing organs. Convincing the locals that they were feds should have been easy. This is exactly the sort of thing the Feds are likely to turn up for and that the locals aren't equipped to deal with. Waltz in, flash a badge, sound authoritative, don't linger, walk right out. Easy.

Dean held up his badge, introducing himself and his partner as FBI.

Castiel pulled out a Marshall badge.

Then Cas fumbled trying to recover it. He talked right over Dean's smooth bullshitting.

And now Dean is pacing a six by six cell in the police station lockup, watching Castiel hunch his shoulders under his jacket, sulking.

"You told me to grab a badge. It was a badge."

"It was the _wrong_ badge. I _told_ you which one's which, and when to use them." The doors are closed, the camera is visual only, and he’s frustrated and annoyed. It isn't the end of the world. Sam’s in town too, and Bobby has pulled he and his brother out of similar situations in the past. . . but damnit, it’s just such a rookie way to get tied up, and until they get out his brother is possibly looking at facing down an unidentified monster alone.

He keeps forgetting what a damned _amateur_ Castiel is.

Scowling at Dean across the empty cell between them, Cas is attempting to grind his teeth down to nubs and trying to maintain a level tone. He’s falling slightly short of reasonable, as if growling a counter-accusation. "I'm sorry that I am apparently sub-par at lying about who I am. We never had to carry identification to establish our authority when. . ."

" _Goddamnit,_ Cas." And yeah, he may choose the term just to see Castiel's eyes narrow, his shoulders tense farther. "If you go into a line about how anything was easier in the 'good old days' I am going to. . ."

"No. But it was more _honest_."

"Yeah, you were just the portrait of honesty." And that may be a bit below the belt. The muscles in Castiel's jaw bunch, shoulders drawing in farther, and he watches Dean without offering a defense long enough to get the point across. He _has_ no defense to that, and Dean knew it when he decided to bring that up because of an honest mistake.

Castiel has done nothing but attempt to make up for what he's done, how he misled them when he went after Purgatory alone, and Dean still drags it out like a convenient weapon, stabbing the angel with his own guilt given half an excuse.

The commotion at the doorway into the lockup spares Dean from having to come up with an apology, but from the way Cas settles himself onto the bench on the far side of his cell they’re probably going to end up having a painful conversation. Dean’s ready to put that off as long as he can.

"....Cut her fucking heart out and I ate it." The man struggling between the three officers that comprise the entire on-duty police force of the area has obviously seen the inside of a cell before. Prison tattoos snake their way across his skin like a spreading poison, and his eyes are wide and manic, muscles spasming, obviously on drugs. Matted dun colored hair tied back into a ponytail, he’s built like a brick wall: the portrait of crazed serial killer. No wonder they hadn't found anything in the books to explain the pattern. Human. Crazy. Seen a few too many cult movies and started stealing ideas. This isn't their arena, this is humanity at its most fucked-up. "The other broad, I did her too. She was fucking delicious, self-righteous little bitch. . ."

The cops don't bother uncuffing him as they throw him into the empty center cell. Panting, one of the officers leans against the wall just past Dean's cell, and Dean rests against the corner bars near him. "This the guy?"

The deputy, young and newly minted enough an officer that Dean swears his uniform still has crease marks from the packaging, nods mutely, leaning his head back against the tiles. "Yeah. We got a call from a house out in the county. Same MO, same everything. When we got there, he already had the knife out. . ." There’s blood running from a slash in the deputy's sleeve, staining the khaki colored uniform. Frowning, Dean gestures at it.

"You should get that checked out, man. Never know what's on that blade."

Pale and ashen, the deputy looked at his sleeve, then up at Dean, nodding slightly. "Yeah. Yeah I should. . ."

An older deputy led him away and the sheriff takes his place against the wall, looking in at Dean, arms folded across a barrel chest. He has had a world more experience with the horrors of human monsters than the kid. "Sorry to stick him in here with you boys. We still haven't cleared up your story. . ." There’s a paternalistic disapproval to the words, and he watches Dean knowingly, craggy brow drawn down. ". . . but we need the boys from state to come pick him up, and we gotta hold him 'til then. I've got the call in, they're on their way from Des Moines, shouldn't be too long. You, your pal there. . . stay away from the bars. Don't let him near you. He's tweaking, and he damn near killed us getting him here. I'll have Stevens watch the videos and keep an ear out at the door, anything happens we'll be right in."

Dean nods slightly, meeting the other man's eyes, one authority to another regardless of whatever story Bobby and Sam cook up to get them out of this mess. "You take care of your officers. We'll be fine."

With a grunt of acceptance, the sheriff pushes off the wall and strides back through the doors into the station, leaving Castiel and Dean alone with the screaming psychotic. Dean will never understand what would bring someone to _this_ , and he'd been through literal Hell.

"Well, this is cozy." Dean shoots across the cells to Castiel, only to find his best friend has withdrawn himself from conversation entirely, legs on the bench with him, his head resting against the corner walls on the bench, and only the tense set of his shoulders indicates that he’s awake at all. Dean knows from recent experience now that if he ran his hands down Castiel's back in this state, he'd find every muscle clearly defined, like steel cording——not knotted, just tensed and pulled tight.

Cas isn’t good with captivity, Dean notes silently, adding up the signals. At times he seems claustrophobic in a motel room too long, or the car. Dean’s just starting to recognize the signs of it, and Castiel. . . well, Cas is still new enough to all of this that he's having trouble accepting that he can't just use his wings and be gone from the situation.

"Cas. . ."

The murderer lurches towards him, pressed against the bars of the cage between them and blocking the view to Cas, his face wedged against the metal and his hands still trapped by cuffs behind his back. The corner of his eye twitches with a visible, rapid flutter, made more obvious by the tattoo that creeps nearly to the corner of it, snaking up from his neck. "They gave me a pretty boy."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and the devil-may-care smirk is reflex by now. "Why hell _-o_ fugly. You are just all sorts of hideous, aren't you?"

"Tell me you're going to prison too. I'd follow you to prison. Lips like those, once you bruised and bloodied 'em up a bit. . ." The drugged up killer in the cell next to his makes a sound that would be profane in a porno. In the last cell, unseen, Castiel twitches and opens his eyes.

"Now that's not creepy or anything." Dean snipes casually, unfazed, arms folding as he leans against the back wall of his own cell. "Sorry, chuckles, you're just not my type."

"I will be. And you'll look so pretty on your knees. . ." Stepping back from the bars between he and Dean, the psychopath leers, the whites of his eyes too clear, pupil of his left eye blown, the other contracted, and he rocks his hips forward obscenely. It’s unsettling, but Dean’s stared down demons, gods and angels. He’s disgusted, not afraid.

And he isn't expecting what happens next. No one could.

Castiel can reach the man's ponytail through the bars. Coiling it around his fist, he yanks backwards, snapping the murderer's neck back, using it as a leash to haul him the step back to his side of the cell. Shoes toed off to allow his foot to fit between the bars, he snaps heel to the back of the man's knee with a sharp crunch, bringing him down, giving Castiel the leverage he needs.

One hand still gripping his ponytail, the other wrapping through the bars of the cell around to the other man's neck, his foot now pressing down on the short link of chains between the murderer's cuffed wrists to restrain him, Castiel shifts his restraining arm and crooks his fingers beneath the murderer's chin and into the soft flesh beneath his jaw, holding him back against the bars between them.

"If you speak to him again, I will kill you. I will rip your jaw open and choke you on your own disgusting tongue." Compared to the violence of his actions, Castiel's words are a calm and straightforward outline of the consequences for continuing his behavior. He's never seemed more the avenging angel, Heaven's soldier and warrior, than he does now that there’s a distinctly human fury in his eyes as he delivers the quiet threat. "You are foul, filthy, and have mutilated your own soul past redemption. You're a demon waiting for the chance at Hell, and I will send you there now if you so much as look at him again."

He punctuates his words with one last sharp yank on the ponytail, the murderer's head colliding with the bars of the cell, but it isn't over. Tucking his chin down over Castiel's arm rather than allowing himself to be released, the man twists, wrenching, losing much of his stringy hair to Castiel's other hand in the process of throwing Castiel off-balance. His foot slips from over the cuffs, and the shoulder of Castiel's restraining arm dislocates with a sickening pop as he’s pulled sideways against the bars sharply, chin colliding with the metal, his fingers loosening on the lunatic's neck.

"Cas!" Dean presses against the bars of his cell, but can't quite reach the action at the other end of the center cage.

As the psycho turns to lunge at the bars trying to bite Castiel's now so-close face off, the door between the station and the lockup bursts open and the sheriff and older deputy crowd through it, to try and ‘rescue’ him. They’re trying to save the wrong person. Castiel jabs his off hand, still clutching some of the hair between his fingers, into the lunatic's nose through the bars violently, smashing it across his face in a spray of blood.

It’s a suspended moment for Dean, looking across at Castiel through the other cell, where the fallen angel now rises, holding his injured arm to his side while the officers fumble the keys to get to him, voices raised. It was dumb, it was reckless, it might complicate their release from the cells, and it was just a bit disturbing in its violence. He should chastise Castiel for it, call him an idiot, tell him he was out of line and remind him that Dean doesn't need anyone to protect him from perverts.

Meeting Cas's eyes, both of them ignoring the ruckus he's caused, Dean sees Cas brace for the expected censure, but his mouth’s disconnected from his brain.

"That was frikkin' _hot_."

It was possessive, protective, violent, and decidedly male, and damned if Dean doesn't want to press Castiel up against the sides of one of these cells and strip all the layers of clothing between him and the fallen angel off, right here, right now.

Neither of them expected that reaction. He isn't sure himself why it registers that way in his mind, why a little bit of violence and Dean’s ready to jump Cas’s bones and play Caged Heat in their cells. Cas blinks in surprise, wetting his lips and staring back at Dean, head canting to the side as if Dean’s still the most fascinating thing he’s ever encountered in a millennium of existence. As Cas is pulled out of his cell by the sheriff, though, Dean can see the former angel ducking his head, a silent laugh bubbling up within him making his shoulders quake. When Cas looks over at him from the straight-backed chair they drop him into as the deputies check to see if his arm’s broken, the corners of his mouth are softened and turned up in a slight smile, blue eyes alight.

And yeah, maybe when he started bunking with Castiel regularly (and apparently exclusively, now that he's tried to remember the last girl he slept with), he should have clued in. He _wants_ Cas, has for a long time, but it’s the resilient broken spirit and the understanding and the mutual need and the sense of belonging and chance at redemption they both seek, all wrapped up in another living being. Moreover, Castiel is such a blank slate of sexual experience, pizza-man aside, that everything is new for both of them. But Castiel’s a guy, not a genderless angel (and he’ll always think of him as his angel, regardless of if he’s mortal or fallen or God at the time), and though Dean pointed it out every chance he got with the others how "junkless" they are, Castiel's body isn't a loaner any more. Castiel is very much a man not just a Castiel . . . and Dean likes it.

It should be complicated. He's just mentally reclassified himself to bisexuality—no matter how belatedly—and it should terrify him. He's tangled himself up in a _relationship_ , and one with a guy no less, who he can't leave behind, who shares his ridiculous violent incomprehensible nomadic life. It _should_ be confusing as hell. But what brought them together was (Sam would go all dewy-eyed schoolgirl over this) an emotional connection built over years, not a flipped switch. He's known he'd take a bullet for Cas, but he's never really considered what this attraction _meant_.

Leaning his shoulder against the bars of his cell, ignoring the profanity-spewing bleeding violent murderer only feet away, Dean smirks back at Castiel and flicks him off for laughing at him, the gesture only setting the angel off again in that impossibly rare silent laugh, easy to miss and impossible for Dean to resent.

It’s surprisingly easy to get them out of the police station after that. The sheriff's deputies are pretty forgiving of Cas laying into a violent murderer (they’re professionals, the good guys, and couldn't do it themselves. . . though after he murdered in their small community people they knew and saw every day they think it was richly deserved) and they buy the idea of Cas and Dean having a personal reason for hunting the guy, some murdered relative or friend across state lines, before Dean even offers them the idea as their excuse for the misdemeanor of impersonation. Cas had been in control the whole time, and they accept that there had been provocation.

Dean gets the feeling that the video of Cas knocking the crap out a psycho serial killer is going to become a favorite around the station. Dean would ask for a copy, but . . . well, he figures he'll be able to catch a repeat performance sometime down the line.

And no, they don't talk about Dean's epiphany. If he can help it, they may never talk about it. And yeah, he kicks his brother out of the motel room without a word of explanation, but Sam’s a sap and probably thinks it’s cute, or romantic, or adorable, or some other phrase that'd piss Dean off to hear aloud. . . and he probably keeps on thinking it right up until the loud smack of a body forcibly shoved up against the wall, a sound swiftly repeated as the tables turn, the two of them evenly matched and Castiel asserting himself as such now.

Cas might be an amateur in a lot of things. But he’s a quick study.

(He’ll remember which badge was which, too, later on down the road.)


End file.
